Asena Blessed: The Chronicles of Altaica, #2

By Tracy M Joyce

At the whims of Gods and Men…

Isaura has emerged from the spirit realm forever altered. No longer a pariah, she embraces the future offered in Altaica, but learns that her survival has come at a price. Her transformation is the perfect weapon for Elena to use against her.

The mysterious Asena and The Lady vie for Isaura. Caught between two ancient powers, Isaura must try to make her own path.

Master spy Vikram launches a counterinsurgency against Ratilal and Faros, weaving innocents into the plot to bring him down. Ratilal prepares to wage war against Karan and Baldev. Desperately, he seeks clandestine means to wreak revenge on them in the very heart of their territory, with devastating results.

With enemies nearing, Isaura must learn to master her powers. Aid arrives from the most unlikely source—one who knows no rules and respects no one.

Having run from one war she will not run from another…

The battle is joined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cassilis and Co
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780992461942

Book preview

CHAPTER One

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Isaura shook uncontrollably; goose bumps prickled her skin, her teeth chattered loudly. Memories flashed back to her. The Lady, the wolves … no, the Asena … and the old woman, Pio and his music. The fragments became whole. They had pulled her from her home, from oblivion. I suppose I should be grateful. Gods, where am I? The noise—everything was so loud. She curled on her side. Enough! Make it all stop!

A quiet voice spoke to her. Strong arms held her. After being unable to touch anything for so long, of thinking she would never be able to feel or hear anyone else, she was overwhelmed with emotion, with gratitude. His voice was so calm, so soothing. Safe.

Karan held a water skin to Isaura’s lips. She tried to hold it but fumbled. He tipped it slowly and she sipped at the water, too weak to do little else.

‘That’s it, but not too much now,’ he said softly as he withdrew the flask.

What’s he saying? I can’t understand. She tried to open her eyes, blinking furiously in the dull morning light. He pulled the hood of the cloak forward to shelter her face.

‘Thank you,’ Isaura murmured. Her throat burned. Gradually she opened her eyes and smiled gratefully at the man who held her.

Karan drew a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes were a deep green, but flecked with a glowing vibrant blue that also rimmed her iris. The same blue as eyes of the Asena.

Isaura instantly liked this face before her. Deep set, dark brown eyes scrutinised her from under prominent eyebrows. His face was framed by wavy dark hair; two curls strayed across his forehead. He had a close-cropped beard and a hawkish nose. Don’t let me go. He frowned; his face appeared tough and ruthless. Inexplicably, she felt hurt—as if somehow she had failed to measure up. He must have noticed her confusion, because he quickly smiled, transforming his face. Laughter lines crinkled around the edge of his eyes and she envisioned a man who could be strong, kind and … Gods girl, get hold of yourself!

Cowering against him she tried to take in her surroundings. A circle of people? Weapons? A forest clearing? Autumn leaves—red and yellow against the fog. Asena. My friends—they’re meant to be here. The Lady said they were here. Frantically she craned her neck searching for them. There! Gabi, Jaime, Curro … Elena. Ugh, some things don’t change.

A cry of anguish reached her. Lucia? Moving bodies blurred past her—one of them mountainous. Nic? Isaura struggled against the arms holding her, but soon gave up. She could barely speak, let alone break free.

Lucia and Nicanor scudded to a halt beside Pio. He lay curled on the ground, with his arm over the neck of the Asena and his face partially buried in its ruff.

‘Pio?’ Lucia asked worriedly as she shook him gently.

‘He merely sleeps,’ Asha said in a soft voice.

Lucia scowled, unable to understand her and angry that her son seemed to have been put at risk by the strange ritual. She looked with distaste at his flute lying on the ground. Magic. Pio had used magic. Nausea rolled through her.

‘Ma …’ Pio grumbled. ‘It’s too early to get up. Let me sleep.’

Lucia caressed his brow. ‘All right, sweeting, you sleep.’ The Asena’s fur brushed her arm. Lucia stiffened, her breath caught in her throat, yet the creature lay placidly beside Pio.

Isaura stirred in Karan’s arms. In a hoarse whisper she asked, ‘Pio? What’s wrong? Is he all right?’

Karan sensed her consternation and weakness. He guarded her as if she was precious and fragile. ‘Ssh, Bright One, ssh. All is well.’

‘Lucia?’ Isaura called out plaintively.

‘Isaura, Pio is well. Rest.’ Lucia darted a fearful look at Karan and the two Asena who surrounded Isaura. Isaura nodded and relaxed again into Karan’s embrace.

‘Umniga, are you with us?’ Karan asked softly. She did not reply. ‘Umniga?’ She had collapsed after the Ritual of Samara. Still in the position she had held in the circle of Kenati, she lay spread-eagled on her back. He nudged her with his foot.

‘Must you do that? I’m bone weary. How is the girl?’ she asked.

‘Overwhelmed, weak.’

‘The Asena?’

‘Only three remain. These two and the one with the boy.’

Asha and the other Kenati converged on Umniga and Karan. They helped Umniga sit up and began talking at once.

‘You’re all right!’

‘Thank the gods.’

‘It worked.’

‘Of course it worked!’ Umniga snapped.

Karan quirked his brow at this. ‘Without the Asena you would have been lost.’

Isaura moaned and held her hands over her ears. She tried to burrow deeper into Karan’s arms to escape the onslaught of the sudden babble.

‘Quiet, all of you!’ he commanded in a harsh whisper. They fell silent, chastened at the sight of Isaura’s cringing form.

‘Karan,’ Umniga said softly. ‘We should examine her.’

‘No. Leave her be. She’s been through enough. You will have time with her later, when she is stronger.’ He rose and strode back to the camp with Isaura in his arms.

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Baldev’s eyes watered in the smoke that lingered low from the burning of the bridge and the fort. Sweat and grime covered his face while blood covered his armour. The smutty tang of the air coated his nose and when he wiped his face he tasted the bloody taint on his hands. Cries and groans of wounded men carried through the polluted air; injured horses squealed nearby. The roadway that led to the former bridge was barricaded. Their own partially built palisade could now be finished and improved upon without threat.

He summoned his captain. ‘Send a rider to Gopindar for reinforcements. Get word to Captain Javal at the northern-most watchtower on the Falcontine that the northern patrols will need to be stepped up. We need to get a move on finishing those last watchtowers and beacon fires.’ He jerked his head to indicate the palisade. ‘Eventually I want this transformed from a palisade to a fort; one day to a citadel.’

The captain nodded hurriedly.

‘Start construction on bridge towers and a bloody great gate behind those barricades. They’ll provide a good vantage point over the bridge foundations and lookout. Keep the enemy from rebuilding the bridge. Get the walls closest to the river rendered quickly to reduce fire risk. One day we’ll replace that bridge and I want something more permanent than these barricades barring the way. Go, see to it.’

Baldev wandered over to the picketed horses to check on their injuries. ‘How goes it?’ he asked an old warrior who was stitching a long cut that ran directly along the underside of a horse’s belly.

‘Not as bad as I’d expect. This one’s lucky, stitch it up and salve it; it’ll heal in no time. There’s a few with ’em bastards’ arras stickin’ out of ’em that won’t be much good for anythin’ for a while. But most will recover. Bloody lucky really.’

‘Can you care for them here?’

A thoughtful look crossed the wizened face. ‘Yep, if our medical kits get resupplied. Between the ’orses and the men, there’ll be bugger all left.’

Baldev nodded. ‘You will.’ A squeal caught his attention and he spied a horse with an arrow protruding from its rump.

One man stood at its head, another at its rear, calming the animal. A woman picked up its hoof, bent its foreleg tightly, and pressed her fingers into its chest. The horse lowered itself to the ground and they rapidly restrained it.

Baldev slowed as he approached them. ‘Well done,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you’d have trouble.’

One of the warriors knelt beside the horse, talking to him quietly while he covered its eyes with his cloak; others held the leg ropes tautly. The youngest, a teenager, sat at the horse’s rump with his med kit beside him. He stared anxiously at the arrow.

Baldev put his hand on his shoulder. ‘He’s yours?’

The boy nodded, pale and sweating.

‘Just do as I say, yes?’

He looked gratefully at Baldev.

‘You can’t pull it straight out. You will have to make a wider cut next to it and then you will be able to work it out.’ Baldev smiled encouragingly. ‘That’s it, well done … a bit more, it’s deep …’

The horse squirmed under the blade; the young warrior’s shaking hand paused.

‘Don’t look so pale, boy.’ Baldev passed him a needle and silk. ‘Stitch it up. You’ve done it.’ Baldev sprinkled a brown powder on the outside of the cut and the horse’s leg restraints were removed.

The young man wiped the sweat from his forehead, getting out of the way as his trembling horse quickly stood. Not taking his eyes from his horse, he said, ‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘Just let him rest.’ Baldev patted him sympathetically on the back. ‘He’ll recover and lead you to victory another day.’

The boy smiled and nodded before fainting.

‘Ah, shit!’ Baldev cursed. He pulled him clear of the horse and lay him down on the grass. His armour showed no sign of damage. Wadded up in the band of his pants, at the base of his cuirass, was a bloody length of cloth. ‘Young fool.’ Baldev scooped him up and made for the field hospital inside the palisade walls. He left him there, saying simply, ‘See what you can do.’

Every clan member learnt basic healing skills, from the time they were children. As warriors they each carried a simple medical kit of supplies. They had to know how to tend to their own injuries and those of others in the field—the sooner they were treated, the sooner they could fight. Warriors who were less able-bodied or too old often became more specialised in healing, thanks to experience and extra training from the Kenati. Yadav was one such warrior.

Baldev spied his grizzly old face amidst a cluster of warriors. A roar tore through the air and Yadav staggered back. More warriors around him leapt forward to bear down upon something. Baldev strode over to help, finding them restraining a large young man whose lower leg had been shattered. A flat blade sat heating in the nearby fire. ‘Yadav?’

Yadav looked up with a scowl. ‘What?’ Seeing Baldev, he grimaced then shrugged. ‘What, my lord?’ Yadav growled in consternation as the young man struggled again. ‘For the love of the gods! Just let me pour the bloody poppy juice down your throat!’

Baldev pushed past the warriors, put both his hands on the patient’s shoulders and pinned him in place. ‘Be still!’

‘They’ll take my leg. Don’t let them take my leg!’

‘BE STILL! It’s your leg now, or your life later. You either let them give you the juice, or we’ll take your damn leg without it. Make up your mind, boy!’

The young man opened his mouth to speak. Baldev grabbed his jaw, pressing his thumb and index finger into his cheeks, preventing him from closing his mouth. Yadav poured the poppy juice down his throat; Baldev held his mouth closed until he swallowed. The youth glared at him.

Baldev was blunt. ‘Don’t look at me like that. We’re going to save your life. It’s the lower part of your leg, below the knee; once you’re healed you’ll still be able to ride, shoot, fight and bed a woman!’

‘You’ll be back in the saddle in no time,’ a gruff voice said. Wry grins broke out among those around him.

‘Understand?’ Baldev asked.

The youth nodded reluctantly.

‘Good, because I have work for you when you are well.’ Baldev gestured to two men near him to replace him in pinning down the young man’s shoulders. A piece of thick leather was placed between his teeth. Joining Yadav at the lower end of the table, Baldev put all his strength into holding the boy’s legs still. ‘Gods, what a mess.’

Yadav removed his tools from boiling water. ‘Blade went right through the muscle and got stuck in the bone. Bugger it! It’d have been easier for us if it had gone all the way through.’

‘Just cut it off,’ Baldev said bleakly. At the first cut the young man passed out.

Yadav worked quickly, sawing through bone, tying off the large blood vessels.

‘Stop,’ Baldev said quietly.

‘Pass me the cauterising blade,’ the old warrior said without looking up.

‘Stop, Yadev. He’s gone.’

Heads bowed, the warriors stepped solemnly back from the table. With a flick of his head Baldev dismissed them.

Yadav’s tired face twisted in bitterness. ‘I hope those strangers are worth it.’

‘Ratilal would have made his move eventually,’ Baldev grunted. ‘It’s better that we deal with him now, before he gains more strength.’

Yadav didn’t answer.

Baldev thought of the battle, of the men—of this young one, of the horses, and he prayed to the gods that it wasn’t all for nothing.

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One of Vikram’s eyes was black and swollen and the white of the other was bloody. He struggled to see clearly as he sat beside Deo in the wagon while they made their way back to Ratilal. Every bump and rut of the dirt roads jolted through the unsprung old wooden cart and sent pain lancing through his ribs. They had stopped at numerous farms where Deo had spoken to the locals. He had no idea what Deo had said and he didn’t care, but they now had a ramshackle convoy carrying the wounded from Parlan.

Nada had taken charge of caring for the wounded; she sat in the rear of Deo’s wagon keeping a sharp eye on them. She had enlisted the newcomers to help and they had proved themselves useful. Vikram hoped it would pacify Ratilal. The villagers from Parlan had the flimsiest of excuses for not aiding his men during the short battle—if they didn’t appear to help now in every way, they would face his wrath. His thoughts strayed to Asha—nobody deserved that.

Well into the morning, their convoy encountered Ratilal’s battered band camped off the roadside near the valley in which they had been ambushed. All those in the convoy stared in silent shock at the number of wounded and dead men and horses. Ratilal sat on a throne of salvaged tack. He stood at the sound of wagons and, with Niaz beside him, limped towards them.

Vikram had witnessed Ratilal’s anger before, yet he had never seen his face like this; it unnerved him. He appeared calm, though his eyes were glassy, cold and hard.

Ratilal’s words were clipped as he took in Vikram’s battered appearance. ‘What. Happened. To. You?’

‘Karan returned with a band of his men, ambushed us, we battled, and lost. They beat me halfway to Karak, tied us up, locked us in the lodge, took a few of the strangers, and left with Umniga and Asha.’

‘Umniga! Asha!’ His face coloured and his hard, cold eyes took on a manic gleam. ‘Did they seem aware that he was coming?’

‘They gave no sign of it earlier, yet they must have known something for they aided the ambush.’ The words left a sour taste in his mouth, though he knew no alternative to utter.

‘Bitches!’ Ratilal spat. ‘Damn those bitches to Karak! They have betrayed their clan. I will flay them alive if I catch them. I …’

Niaz put a hand on Ratilal’s arm and whispered. Ratilal shrugged off his hand, but subsided sullenly.

He appeared thoughtful for a moment, before looking cunningly at Deo and the others. ‘Did no one help you? Did no one hear the fighting and come to your aid?’

Deo’s fists clenched the driving reins. Before Deo could speak, Vikram replied, ‘Many had gone home to their outlying farms, so had no knowledge of the battle.’

‘The others?’ Ratilal demanded.

‘The others were too drunk to hear …’

‘Too drunk! Ah! They were not drunk when we began our chase …’

Vikram shifted in his seat, deliberately wincing, drawing Ratilal’s attention away from Deo. ‘They were difficult to rouse and reeked of ale.’ Deo did not reek of ale when Vikram ‘woke’ him, but he did now. Clever old bastard.

Deo cleared his throat. ‘Aye, we was well on the way when you gave chase to those bastards.’ He spat on the ground in disgust. ‘But at the news of the murder of your father, we drank some more in misery, then some to bless his journey. We slept like logs.’

Well done, old man, Vikram thought.

Ratilal pursed his lips, muttered to Niaz and flicked his head in their direction. Niaz approached and within three feet of Deo he wrinkled his nose as he took in his dishevelled appearance. Looking back at Ratilal, he nodded. A look of disappointment crossed Ratilal’s face, but the mask of control slipped back onto his visage.

‘Vikram, get down from that wagon and report fully. Niaz, find room for the wounded on this convoy. They need to get to Faros, where we can better care for them. Leave those with minor wounds to see to the injured horses. Find a farm nearby where we can take them. We’ll probably lose most of the horses, but send supplies and help anyway. The injured are in the care of these good people.’ He gestured to the locals driving the wagons. ‘Consider it payment for your laxity in aiding Vikram and my men. Take very good care of them, make sure they all survive or you will incur my wrath. The levies will be called and your village shall lead by example, providing all its able-bodied men.’

‘The dead, my lord?’ Niaz asked.

Ratilal looked at the corpses in disgust. He drew Niaz aside. ‘We need to burn them. They’ll be ripe by the time wagons get back.’

Niaz moved closer to him, whispering, ‘You can’t leave them here.’

‘Of course not,’ Ratilal said quietly. ‘We’ve no oil and in our state we can’t gather wood to burn them.’ His nose wrinkled with distaste. ‘And we need to show Faros and those who supported my father that the old ways will not be forgotten. In the face of our dedication to the dead, how can they not follow me?’ Loudly, he finished, ‘If you have room, take them. If not, send wagons back. It is only fitting that they have a proper farewell before their families.’

Niaz bowed deeply. As he rose his eyes locked with Vikram’s and a flash of sympathy danced across them before he spun on his heels and left.

Ratilal swept his gaze over Vikram’s battered face. ‘Well, what happened?’

Vikram related the night’s events in detail.

‘Had you seen any of these men earlier? Were they part of his original force?’

‘No, High Lord, I do not think so.’

‘Think?’ Ratilal asked icily.

‘They were not, High Lord.’

Ratilal debated scenarios to himself. ‘Karan must have had a force of men hidden somewhere. Could they have split off from the main force during our ambush?’

If he keeps going, he’ll figure it out; they need more time. ‘Either way, High Lord, they killed your father and took what they wanted. And they must have wanted those strangers very badly,’ Vikram said bitterly.

Ratilal glanced up quickly, distracted from his musing. ‘Yes, you say they took some of the strangers.’

‘In fact, High Lord, I believe that was their only purpose. They said that Clan Lord Shahjahan had promised the strangers to them. They were only interested in the unconscious girl and the young boy and his family—no others.’

‘Why? He risked much by this. What could be worth it? Did you notice anything special about them?’

‘If they were sent by the gods, High Lord …’

A horse, lathered and exhausted, rounded the road’s bend. Vikram leapt protectively before Ratilal, drawing his kilij. Warriors drew beside him shielding their lord. The horse skidded to a halt.

The rider slid from its back shouting, ‘High Lord! I must see the High Lord!’ Jabr, the young warrior Ratilal had sent out scouting with Mas’ūd, floundered his way towards him.

Ratilal cocked his brow imperiously at the breathless young warrior and ordered, ‘Report!’

‘High Lord! Mas’ūd found them. They passed, via a hidden trail, down to the river and were resting their horses.’ Jabr wheezed and gulped air.

‘For the love of the gods, someone give him some water so he can finish.’

Jabr gratefully took a water skin.

‘Drink, boy! Finish your report!’

Jabr’s voice shook as he continued, ‘High Lord, Lord Karan was not with them …’

‘I know that.’

‘The one we thought was Lord Karan was in disguise …’

‘I know that!’ Ratilal bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, as he barely resisted beating the dolt.

Jabr, ashen, replied haltingly, ‘High Lord … I …’

‘How many men were in the group you saw? Did it look to be the full force? Did Mas’ūd notice if any had turned off anywhere?’

Jabr quailed under Ratilal’s intense scrutiny.

‘High Lord, forgive him his tardiness—he is green and nervous. Report, lad. Slow down. Breathe. The high lord is fair; he’ll not punish you for the truth.’ Vikram smiled at him. C’mon lad, pull yourself together.

Ratilal coolly appraised Vikram before he replied in an even tone, ‘I need the truth—speak.’

Jabr licked his lips nervously, then drew himself up. ‘High Lord,’ Jabr continued, his voice gaining confidence as he did so. ‘Mas’ūd saw no sign of the enemy splitting the main force. Other than the absence of Lord Karan, the entire force seemed to be there. We killed one of their sentries. When we left they were still resting their horses. Mas’ūd has gone to warn the crossing guard, hoping to stop them at the bridge.’

‘Dismissed, join the others,’ Ratilal absently ordered.

Jabr bolted.

‘Don’t assume that you know the extent of my benevolence, Captain Vikram,’ Ratilal said harshly.

Vikram bowed, contrite. ‘High Lord, what would you have us do?’

Ratilal shook his head and sneered. ‘We can do nothing and you know it as well as I. We are too depleted. Better they had not killed the sentry—doubtless they’ve discovered him and moved on. Too much time has passed, Vikram; we wouldn’t catch up and if we did,’ his hand encompassed the wounded around him, ‘we could do little. We must trust that Mas’ūd made it to the crossing.’

Anger and hate welled within Ratilal, begging to be unleashed. It roared like a living flame inside him. He constantly struggled to control it, yet it bubbled to the surface all too often; it felt so good to unleash his anger and let it burn. He loathed that his father had been right about him needing patience and control.

Ratilal breathed deeply. ‘Right now, we look after the men. After that, we plan.’ Pre-occupied, he resumed pacing while slapping his gauntlet impatiently against his thigh. ‘How did they get extra troops in undetected? Have you any ideas?’ Ratilal demanded.

Vikram scrambled for an answer. ‘High Lord, I do not.’

‘Nothing? Surely a man of your experience has some ideas.’

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Deo and Nada had been discretely listening while they worked with the wounded.

‘Deo, get me the spare bag from the wagon,’ Nada said. He looked at her as if she were mad. She glared back at him. ‘Just do it, you lazy old bugger.’

He shrugged and went to the wagon to look. In consternation she said to the warrior she was treating, ‘Oh, for the love of the gods. He won’t find it, daft old sod that he is.’ She moved hastily to the side of the wagon.

‘Well?’ Deo hissed.

‘Help him,’ Nada said, shifting her eyes to Vikram. Deo glowered at her, but her scowl silenced him. ‘Just do it. There’s more going on here than you think.’

‘You better be right,’ he mumbled as they both turned and wandered back. ‘High Lord,’ Deo said deferentially, ‘I … we couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.’

‘Well?’ Ratilal demanded.

‘There is a way they could enter Boar Clan lands, High Lord,’ Deo replied. Ratilal stiffened, his gaze predatory. ‘It’s an old way and not well known anymore. They could have come by Hunters’ Ford.’

Ratilal spun to Vikram. ‘How is it you did not think of this?’

‘A lad like Captain Vikram wouldn’t know of it,’ Deo said hastily.

Vikram apologised. ‘High Lord, it is an ancient track. In truth, I am ashamed to say I had forgotten its existence.’

‘You’d have to be a local to know it, High Lord.’ Deo shook his head and casually hawked up a gob of phlegm before continuing. ‘Entrance is totally overgrown. Be bloody stupid to use it this time of year anyway—river usually floods. Treacherous bloody crossing at the best of times.’

Ratilal fisted his hands; his head pounded. ‘Idiots, all around me—idiots!’ His hand strayed to the flask hidden in his pocket; quickly he stopped himself.

He summoned Niaz. ‘Old man, tell us how to find the entrance.’

‘Entrance?’ Niaz asked.

‘To the track to Hunters’ Ford,’ Vikram said.

‘Oh that.’

Ratilal’s face turned puce and a vein throbbed in his temple. ‘You knew!’

‘I did not think …’ Niaz paled. ‘By the gods! Karan, that’s how …’

Ratilal’s face contorted in rage. The urge to punch his friend in the face nearly overwhelmed him. ‘Niaz, find us some horses. I need to see this track.’

‘Will you not take some men with you, High Lord?’ Vikram asked.

Ratilal hesitated. ‘Yes, only a few. Karan will be long gone and you’ll need all the help you can get. Sort things out here and head back to Faros; be careful. I don’t want these men put at more risk. I need them tended and back to fighting strength. We’ll catch up with you before the Four Ways. Gods only know what we’ll find there, but we’ll tackle it together.’

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Karan carried Isaura from the sacred site where the Ritual of Samara had been held into the main camp and sat on the ground near the campfire with his legs stretched out. The early morning fog was slipping away through the trees and the glow of the sun was shifting from grey to golden.

Isaura sat nestled between Karan’s legs, leaning against his chest. The Asena had followed and lay stretched alongside them. Isaura shuddered and she held her arms tightly against herself trying to warm them. More cloaks were thrown around her. Her arms and legs were grabbed and rubbed vigorously.

She knew they were trying to get the blood flowing through her limbs, but with each touch it felt as if a thousand pins speared her. Isaura moaned, trying to raise her leaden hands and move away. Karan held her fast with one arm around her middle. Her head rested against his chest while he caressed her brow. He tipped his head forward and, as she fought the pain in her legs, Isaura heard him murmuring in a soothing tone.

Isaura concentrated on his soft voice. Karan’s lips were right next to her ear; his breath warm against her skin. ‘Ssh, bright one. All will be well, hush now. I’ve got you. You are home, ssh.’ Karan repeated this mantra until Isaura began to settle.

Asha summoned Āsim. ‘We need her to try to move her legs some more.’

Āsim placed a hand around Isaura’s foot and under her knee, bending each of her legs repeatedly, while Asha continued to rub them. Isaura groaned as the pain increased, crested, then eased as more of the feeling returned.

‘Stop.’ Isaura’s words were foreign, but her intent was clear.

Āsim looked up and tightened his grip on her leg.

‘Stop!’ Isaura’s voice growled a low, bass tone, which rumbled through those nearest her. The Matriarch watched her closely.

Āsim stopped, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he shivered visibly.

The Matriarch pushed him out of the way and sat on her haunches directly between him and Isaura, baring her teeth.

Karan’s hand tightened around Isaura’s waist. ‘Āsim, I think you’ve been told.’

‘Aye. Asha, I’m sorry. You’re on your own.’

‘Karan?’ Asha asked.

‘Leave her be. Just bring me some food.’

Karan tipped Isaura’s face to his, scrutinising it carefully under the protection of the cloak’s hood. He said softly, soothingly, ‘You must learn control—relax.’

The hood of the cloak slipped back as Asha returned and Isaura’s eyes met hers. Asha gaped. Karan quickly shook his head at Asha to remain silent. He pulled the hood back up, sheltering Isaura’s face.

Asha knelt before them with a bowl of watered-down stew. She stirred it slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Karan, what just happened with Āsim?’

Karan turned a stony gaze upon her. ‘I believe we’ll find out in due course, but for now, not a word.’ Asha nodded reluctantly.

The motion of Asha’s hand as it stirred the stew mesmerised Isaura. I hope I’m not drooling. Asha moved the bowl up to Isaura’s lips. Karan laughed as she licked her lips and she wriggled impatiently. Isaura frowned at him. Laugh, will he? It’s not him who’s bloody well starving. He caught her annoyed look and schooled his features. Yes, that’s right, but your damn eyes are twinkling. You still think this is funny. Isaura pursed her lips, glaring at Karan, daring him to laugh again, but she could not resist returning his smile. Her stomach grumbled loudly. She chuckled hoarsely, wincing at the dry irritation of her throat. A water skin was pressed against her lips.

‘Slowly,’ Karan said softly. ‘Sl-ow-ly.’

Nodding, Isaura raised her eyes to him again, scowling. ‘I’m not an idiot.’ She attempted to sit up properly. The effort exhausted her and made her dizzy. Isaura leaned back against Karan’s chest with an exasperated huff. His hand rubbed her shoulder sympathetically.

‘Here,’ Karan said to Asha. ‘Give me the bowl. Go see to Umniga. I’ll take care of her.’ He held Asha’s hand firmly when she handed him the bowl and in a voice that brooked no disobedience said, ‘Not a word to her, Asha, not yet.’

CHAPTER Two

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Karan held the steaming bowl before Isaura. It took all her concentration to grip the wooden spoon. She managed two mouthfuls with a shaking hand and the spoon slipped from her fingers. I’m like a damn baby.

Though physically exhausted, Isaura’s mind raced. The language she was hearing fascinated her; its complex rhythm and cadences were lyrical and it resonated deep within her. Isaura leaned back, closing her eyes to listen.

Karan’s arm draped loosely around her waist. He had much to plan and they needed to reach Bear Tooth Lake and rendezvous with Baldev, yet it felt wonderful to rest after their flight. Karan was surprised at his reluctance when he lay Isaura on the ground. ‘Rest, bright one,’ he murmured as he left her. The Asena, ever her sentinels, promptly spooned alongside Isaura, one facing her feet while the other faced her head.

Karan found the Kenati away from the main camp, deep in discussion. He strode into their midst. ‘Effective immediately—Hadi, you will return to the High Citadel in Targmur and work with Chancellor Khayrat. I want him to send word across the High Plateau and mobilise all my forces. Hadi, Khayrat is in charge while I am absent. You’ll assist him in any way he deems fit and I need you there to ensure communications. Munira, I need to send you and your guardian to reconnoitre the Four Ways. I need to know how Lord Baldev fared. Then you will go to the squad at Hunters’ Ford. Keep me informed of any developments through Asha or Umniga. Anil, Suniti, go to the Bear Tooth Lake. You’ll make better time on your own. Find Baldev, I’m sure he’ll have need of you. Spread the word of what has happened to any homesteads on the way. Tell them we’ll do our utmost to protect them, but we offer the protection of the High Citadel for any young children. Their parents must bring them to the lake in two weeks’ time. From there they’ll be taken to Targmur.’

Shocked looks passed amongst the Kenati. No low-lander had ever visited Targmur.

Seeing their astonishment, Karan laughed harshly. ‘These people are under my protection, mine and Lord Baldev’s; they are ours.’ How better to cement their loyalty than by protecting and educating their children. ‘I will endeavour to protect them, but this is a large territory … I’ll not suffer their children to be victims if I can help it. Asha, Umniga, you remain with this lot and teach them—quickly. The sooner they learn and are useful the better.’ His glance encompassed them all. ‘Now go. Not you, Umniga.’

Karan watched them leave then addressed her. ‘What do you know about the Ritual of Samara?’

She frowned. ‘Not a great deal. It was the time of the last Bard Kenati. Samara was dying; he loved her and wanted to save her. He conceived the ritual in desperation, and she lived.’

‘How did it change her?’

Puzzled, Umniga said, ‘There are no accounts of any change. She lived to an uncommonly old age, though. Why?’

‘The girl—Isaura.’ It felt odd saying her name aloud. ‘Her eyes are flecked with the blue of the Asena. I’ve already seen a glimpse of Undavi in her.’

Umniga’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened.

Good, she’s off guard, maybe I’ll get the truth. ‘Tell me exactly what happened in this ritual.’

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Baldev was confronted with the horrified face of Mirza’s rider. ‘He’s gone, my lord … Mirza is gone,’ he said.

‘Was he among the dead?’

‘No, my lord. I checked twice. What will I tell Lord Karan?’

‘What? That you’ve lost his horse … no, not just his horse, but his guardian too.’ Baldev’s lips twitched.

Another warrior looked up from tending an injured horse and took pity on the man. ‘Bloody horse has always been trouble, ever since he was a young ’un.’ Mirza’s rider looked between the two of them in confusion. ‘Don’t worry about it, man. Damned horse hightailed it out across the bridge at the end of the battle.’

Baldev laughed at his look of relief. ‘He’s gone back to Karan, that’s all. Find another horse to ride to the lake—you’ll be safer anyway. Go on.’ He turned to the warrior. ‘What do you think has made him happier: that he won’t have to tell Karan, or he won’t have to ride him again?’

‘Not getting on that bloody horse, I reckon.’

Yadav approached Baldev. His arms were no longer gloved in red, yet his clothing was stiff and darkened from crusting blood.

‘How goes it?’ Baldev asked.

‘Not as bad as it could’ve been, but bad enough.’

‘The young one who saved his horse—the one I carried to